


Here In Your Presence I Seek Acceptance Of My Repentance

by ohfrecklefreckle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Actual Smut, All of the hotness, M/M, Peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfrecklefreckle/pseuds/ohfrecklefreckle
Summary: "If you were church, I'd get on my knees..."~Passion made him passionate. Being wanted as desperately as desert rain was something that Patrick found irresistible.~Old school disclaimer: M/M RPF - you have been warned! Bad language and graphic, detailed explicit smut. If you don't like RPF then please don't read it. Lil bit of angst but nothing heavy.





	Here In Your Presence I Seek Acceptance Of My Repentance

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely canon smut. Mainly canon, lots of smut. I enjoyed writing this far too much and if you enjoy reading it even one tenth as much then I'll be pleased as punch <3

He had no idea how he got there and even less of a clear idea of what was going on. If he didn't know better Patrick would suspect that something had been slipped into his last glass of Scotch but then he'd slipped himself enough Scotch across the evening for that to be the more likely cause of his temporary amnesia.

Patrick knew that he was knelt close to the edge of his bed with his jeans and trunks peeled down as far as his parted knees would allow. His arms were looped tightly around Pete's neck and his forehead pressed against the soft shallow beside Pete's collar bone. The soft groans filling the room sounded something like familiar and yet he couldn't quite place why, unaware that the muffled noises were coming from his own mouth. If he could look down he would see his fedora beside his left knee on the bed, forlornly upturned where it had landed after being knocked off his head by the force of Pete's kisses.

Behind his closed eyelids everything was brilliant white and space black at the same time. He didn't know how long he could realistically go without breathing but it had felt like an eternity since his mouth took in a breath. The tacky skin of his flushed cheek seemed to be blocking the flow of air to his mouth. He blamed that entirely for the light headed feeling that was making him float out of his body above them both. It _had_ to be that.

Pete knew differently. He usually did. Pete could feel Patrick pressing against him, grasping at the back of his neck as he fought for something to hold on to. Perfectly metronomic moaning vibrated against his skin. Patrick was lost to the world when he was like this and nothing on earth or anywhere else in the galaxy felt as good to Pete. Closeness with Patrick was as good as life ever got.

His left hand contained balled up cotton, pulling Patrick ever closer to him by the Bowie t-shirt that he was praying not to tear or damage. Pete's other hand was lower, much lower, and working Patrick over like a pro. The slip and slide of the lube in his palm made every motion cause wet pornographic noises, much like the ones he was planning on hearing later when he would fill his mouth, cover his teeth and hold his breath all at the same time. His slick fist, curled loosely around the forever impressive length of hard flesh, went all the way from the base to the tip every time with ease, punctuated by a small turn of Pete's wrist at the very top that pulled something from Patrick's mouth that had the clarity of one of his falsettos. Every few downstrokes he would add in a squeeze at the base that made a gutteral groan join his obscene symphony. He only wished that Patrick would record himself sometimes – the passion in the sounds mirrored those in his singing voice and would be so easy to hide on their next radio record.

In his mind Patrick was begging and pleading: _more... Jesus, Pete, please, don't fucking stop..._ but the entreaties were as stuck in his throat as the air was. Nothing in, nothing out. He tried to concentrate, pressing his lips together to try and get the sound of the first 'p' in please to form but all it ended up doing was planting kisses that he added his tongue to, tasting the intoxicating hot and salty sweetness of Pete's skin. He tried to move his hips to meet the touch more firmly but the restraint of his clothing coupled with his proximity to Pete's body gave him nowhere to go. He was entirely reliant on Pete picking up the pace or doing something to end the purgatory that his starved libido had been existing in. His entire body felt heavy, like he was being drowned in the sweetest syrup and yet he was so willing to let himself go under.

This wasn't his own soapy hand in the shower, his own spit slicked hand in the family bathroom at home or the frantic dry hand of his dressing room backstage on the Soul Punk tour. How he had imagined in many mirrors that Pete would come to the show, make his way through the crowd and watch him from the barricade with intent. In his mind they would go to his dressing room, kick everyone out and Pete would fuck him over a table or braced against the sink, tearing the sweat soaked tailored shirts from his body as the silver pearl buttons scattered all over the floor. No ceremony, no romance. Just the right side of painful. What Patrick had been craving was ' _get in me and get going_ ' sex, ' _getting back together just to be able to fuck you is worth it but why did you ever leave me?_ ' sex, ' _do you want me more now I look like Mikey?_ ' sex. Patrick knew it would never happen but he had the dreams. Almost every night he had the dreams, many mornings he woke to a mess in his underwear or jarred himself awake whilst face down and humping the mattress like the desperate, pliable eighteen year old virgin that Pete had deflowered at the first possible opportunity.

He couldn't know but should have guessed that Pete was having those dreams too.

There wasn't a willing body in Los Angeles that could sate Pete and he knew because he'd tried them all. Men, women, women and women, men with more men and some women watching and every other flavour combination besides. Hotel suites, online hook ups, bar bathroom blow jobs – none of it had worked. His best efforts to fuck thoughts of Patrick out of his body had failed and, if anything, had made his dependency worse. It wasn't just different, it was nowhere near the same. They called his name, some even made his eyes roll into the back of his head and snowballed with him just how he told them he liked it. (He was just curious to see if it pressed his buttons the same way it had when Patrick offered him the first tainted kiss of a hundred or more that they would go on to share. Turns out that it didn't.) Still he sat up in the middle of the night thinking about a body that he hadn't touched for so long it felt like it had never been beside or inside his at all.

Many nights had ended in the same routine – grab his phone and almost call the number on his first speed dial but then chicken out at the last second. There was no way he wanted that call to confirm his suspicions that Patrick had moved on or that they were definitely over. It was easier to retreat into his cinematically framed memories and find grainy 8mm mind's eye footage of Patrick naked, willing and waiting for him. The remembered home movies sustained him and destroyed him at the same time. He had no idea how many hands and mouths had visited every inch of that soft, pale skin since last time he had explored it, cherished it. Loved it? Maybe. Probably.

That's where it started. That's why Patrick can't remember anything. He doesn't remember pulling at the well worn home made slashed-to-a-vest Metallica t-shirt that Pete arrived in until it came off over his head. Nor does he recall throwing it onto the bed as he cast his eyes over the barbed wire tattoo that he once knew every twist and turn of intimately, drinking in details as if it was the first time all over again.

A knock at the door and a startled expression. A wordless conversation that led to Pete being invited in. It was only a couple of hours since they sat together at the kitchen table but at the same time it felt like forever ago.

It was only a coffee at first. An empty house a coincidental convenience. There was no way either would admit it was a bad idea to be alone together or acknowledge the danger if a once requited but long abandoned lust should be reawakened. Then came the liquor. Patrick counted Scotch in thick fingers and Pete had managed to find a vodka he liked from the half emptied bottles. Both took it neat with just a few ice cubes. Mouths cold, souls warmed.

It wasn't until Pete said he was leaving and went in for a hug that it all went awry. When Patrick pulled back from the intense heat of their close contact there was something in his eyes that belied what was bubbling under the surface between them. A need that was all-consuming and unquantifiable. His entire body thrummed with a feeling that he was and always had been Pete's property and it was like he'd posted that information into a floodlit billboard above his head.

If he was his own marketing man then Patrick was about to get a great commission pay out. Pete's lips met his without force at first. Trepidation held them back but only for a second. The reconnection lit them both up like a old neon shop sign that blinked back to life with a new fuse to conduct the power. 'Get yours here' it read. Hot and ready now.

The notoriously sloppy kisses had changed in the years apart, or at least that's how it felt. Pete had gone from kissing like he fucked – fast, hard and explosive - to kissing how he wrote the songs – inquisitive, persistent and other-worldly. Patrick felt his skin catching light, from the soles of his feet all the way up to his lips. Sparks flew, a halo of brilliant golden lights surrounding him as Pete pushed him towards the stairs, reading his mind or perhaps just pushing his own agenda. Patrick didn't care by then, he was a liquid pool of need, wanting to be consumed and to consume, to let his body and mind become one in the hands of a man who had completed him and then dismantled him every single time he left in the morning under the cloud of another hopeless excuse.

Pete felt the same and yet wildly different too. This wasn't his Patrick. It was Patrick 2.0 and maybe even Mikey 1.2. The shock of blonde hair had been a wild sight when he first saw it. Where was his slightly awkward friend of so many years with the thick mutton chops and the dress sense of a middle aged Eighties rocker? How had those intervening years turned his friend into someone who exuded sex instead of the shame and regret that Pete had tried so hard to get him to see past? Pete felt his legs getting kicked out from under him as he tousled the choppy hair inbetween his fingers, feeling the confidence in the reciprocated kiss connect straight to his groin. A realisation dawned that it didn't matter what he did next, this was a different man and yet somehow still someone he knew as well as he knew himself. Reinvention was fucking sexy and he started to feel less like he was pushing the point and more like he was completing half of a whole; hunter and prey whichever way round the scene was set, ringmaster and long-tamed lion just the same.

The staircase hadn't been a problem, neither had the landing, the bedroom door third on the right or avoiding the furniture as they careered towards the bed like a meteor headed to earth that had narrowly avoided imploding on the way down. Over and over: _'missed you, need you, want you'_ echoed into kisses that went on forever. Pete felt his lips bruising as Patrick dragged his teeth across them, the nipping bringing sharp needle like stabs which fired him up even further. Since when did Patrick fucking bite when he kissed?

Not since now. Since eighteen months ago when he found a power in his sexuality that had never been there before. It was there when he ground his hips on a microphone stand while staring at the hot men and women at the front who had come to check out his new look. When he sang Allie and talked about being taught naughty things he wasn't kidding. His education had started later than most but he had learned how to make up for lost time. Pete had taught him so much about what his body needed and his mind had fought it and ignored it but eventually given in. Fortunately in Pete's absence there had been compliant souls lining up for him to take home and it always seemed like an offer too good to resist. Cute, skinny boys with soft skin, soft floppy hair, soft hands and dirty mouths who had approached him with their eyes before the encore at his gigs. They offered and provided him all the blow jobs he could have ever wanted to the point where it was strange to see his cock without lips wrapped around it. Women were just as interested but many were much older than him. He took the boys home more than the soccer moms but didn't discount anybody on his journey of discovery. His hope had been that a Pete by any other name would smell as sweet.

Patrick's biggest problem was that for the first few months he tasted Pete in every late night kiss. He was using Pete's moves and in truth the people underneath him were Pete's conquests. He was an impostor to a throne he never truly wanted to sit on. He would rather have been at home every night playing with a new track than in a different hotel suite but the distraction of the company was nice. His body was worshipped and treated with reverence by them all, maybe some were more into him than even Pete was, but none of it made the front page in his head.

It turned out that for all his new found experience it still lost all value when it came to Pete. There was nothing comparable. The way their bodies fitted together, the way Pete's hands seemed to go just where he wanted them at just the right time. It was the very definition of right.

That's how Patrick ended up on the edge of the bed, glistening cock in Pete's hand, swollen lips pressed on what was cool flesh until he settled there. Pete had made the first and most important move. He had made the drive, come to his door and beaten on it and demanded to be heard. Passion made him passionate. Being wanted as desperately as desert rain was something that Patrick found irresistible. So irresistible that he felt the sharp spasm start in his thighs and echo through every sinew until it reached a peak in his groin, the explosion spreading from hip to hip before one final half-thrust into Pete's hand send him flying into the black hole.

If Pete's only thought was _'as sweet as the last time'_ then the only other vague shape of a notion forming in his brain was _'please god let there be another next time'_. His jaw was set, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as his arm sped up. The nausea of need, the sheer intensity of his own lust both toxic and intoxicating. With no warning Patrick pulled him closer, nearly dragging him off balance as he lost his footing and only righted himself at the last second. Pete came close as Patrick came, his hand trapped where it was between them and the bumps of his own third knuckles brushing so sweetly against the straining denim of his jeans.

The arms around his neck released and the cold tingle across the back of his neck made him miss the overheated grip. He felt Patrick's hands slide down his chest, spreading heat like a wildfire, flickering a feeling like the heat of a lit candle across his aching nipples before one settled on his hip, nudging at low slung jeans already struggling to stay up.

The other grasped his wrist and pulled it upwards, his fingers meeting parted lips from between which an eager tongue emerged, licking a strip down from the tips of Pete's ring and middle fingers to the middle of his palm before turning his hand over and repeating the action, taking as many of the cooled splashes with it as it went. Pete had rarely seen anything as beautifully twisted in his life. Patrick glistened with sweat in the half light, his hair stuck to his forehead, eyes closed but a peaceful expression settled on his face as if he had been sanctified by the act.

Unable to help himself, Pete leaned in and kissed the shared taste of Patrick into his mouth, mixed as it was with the tang of of his own sweat, the hint of cherry coming from the lube tainted with the peaty smoke of the Scotch and the opening of a floodgate of emotion that he had held back for so long. A mixtape of words he had written since the last time played on repeat in his head - _make it easy, say I never mattered...release the doves surrender love... if my heart is a grenade, you pull the pin and say_ _–_ and the reverie was only broken by the button fastening of his jeans being opened as if he was the grandest present ever received. Patrick's fingers smoothed under the waistband of his underwear and slid everything down at once, exposing him to the cool air.

Sliding to the floor from the bed wasn't going to be graceful but then Patrick knew that being sylph-like wasn't one of his skills at the best of times. Once the sudden move had been made there wasn't time to do much more than rearrange himself, pull his t-shirt down and make himself as comfortable as he could on his knees. From the way Pete had drawn the orgasm from him in double quick time he knew it wouldn't take long to return the favour. There was no point in dragging it out, his best moves needed to be saved for a time when they weren't going at each other like desperate virgins with parents due home inside the hour.

Wetting his lips was the only mercy he showed himself, sinking his mouth as far down as he could at the first time of asking, the stretch of his cheeks feeling far better than he remembered it. He wasn't the only one in the world who knew what Pete's cock looked like but he knew he was one of the only ones who knew exactly what it liked. Bobbing his head he used his lips to apply gentle pressure, the persistent _updown updown_ growing gradually more shallow as the savoury and salty flavour started to seep into taste buds that had craved Pete for as long as he could remember.

Eventually he was doing little more than hollow out his cheeks and swirl his tongue around the head, listening to the way Pete's breathing hitched and stuttered. His hand had already wrapped around the shaft, mirroring the gentle, shallow movements his mouth made. More than once Pete had told him that was how Archangel Gabriel would give head and Patrick felt confident in taking it as a compliment. There was something powerful about being so delicate in coaxing Pete towards a holy release that would fulfil his body and mind.

The hand that stroked his hair wasn't insistent or forceful. Pete had never needed to beg for more, Patrick gave it willingly. He moaned quietly at the tenderness of the touch, feeling his head start to fuzz and spin. Without thinking he started to hum under his laboured breath, sending sweet vibrations through his lips and insistent tongue. He didn't have to touch them to feel Pete's thighs clench and stiffen. Any second he would find the flood in his mouth and take it like the eucharist; cleansed, renewed and born again in the sacrament. He would become a part of something far bigger. On his knees with his mouth open was where Patrick found his benediction.

Words penetrated the haze but Patrick could only make a few out – _yes, oh my god don't stop, please, I fucking love you..._

_...I've always fucking loved you..._

-

In the hours before dawn Pete would use the word love more than he ever had in his lyrics or to the wife he had married in a futile attempt to escape his own fate. It had taken him so long to say it properly but suddenly it fell from his tongue like cascading petals from a cherry blossom tree in the spring breeze. As the sun erupted and morning broke outside the window he was whispering it again as he ghosted kisses over spread thighs, as his hands held Patrick's shaft steady and he watched sleepy eyes widen as he filled his mouth until he couldn't say love anymore.

Patrick loved hearing love and being loved. Being worshipped by an incomparable mouth belonging to an inimitable man. Finally believing in his worth and his world. His hands splayed out into the ruined and crumpled bedsheets, clawing at the mattress as he felt love in every square millimetre of his body. The union of reunion was putting back together what was broken for so long and hadn't been fixed with sharp tailoring and barbering. His pearl buttons were finally scattering and shattering. With his eyes and heart wide open Patrick knew.

He knew.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual style of writing but this crept up on me and demanded a voice. How glad am I that it did?! 
> 
> All reads, kudos and reviews gratefully received <3


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